


Metamorphosis

by Alessgrosskid (thatonegrosskid)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Punk, John curses a lot, John-centric, M/M, Past Drug Use, Punk AU, Trans Male Character, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, all the four mains are trans! bite me!, but shes not coming in for a little while, no betas we die like men, tags will be added if i need to!, yall are gonna love eurus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonegrosskid/pseuds/Alessgrosskid
Summary: John Watson is no stranger to sprained wrists, bruised ribs, fist fights or getting locked out of the house. He's pretty used to whaling on guys from class and sitting in his room for hours until his dad goes to sleep.He's not, however, used to people showing interest in him, especially not tall, dark and annoying punks like Sherlock Holmes.[AKA smth smth the story of how John Watson learns to open up and appreciate punk music.]
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. What You're Used To

**Author's Note:**

> I have other stories to update but ;w; i can't stop thinkin abt new stories  
> a lot of the tags arent gonna apply until later chapters, so sorry abt the tagbait!

John Watson was no stranger to fistfights or the fucked up wrists that often accompany them when he gets a little too into whaling on whatever cunt decided to try and mess with him. He knew how to fix himself up, make sure that he was always in fighting shape, no matter how many chuds he had to beat down. It was par for the course at this point, even if he promised himself he wished it wasn’t.

So when he's in the middle of a fight with some douche called Aaron from his nursing class who wouldn't stop trying to harass him on his way home, wrist aching and seriously debating on trying to take a chunk out of the kid with his teeth, he won't say he wasn't thankful, but he was surprised when a new contender entered the fight. Suddenly this lanky giant in leather was between him and Aaron, punching the asshole down to the ground and flipping out a blade, telling him to get lost and stay lost. They both watch Aaron book it away and the giant closes his knife, stuffing it into a pocket and digging out a cigarette and lighter. 

"So, John Watson, yes?" The guy asks while he lights his dart, not looking at him. John nods absently, freshly concerned about where the fresh fuck this was going. 

"What's it to you?" He puffs his chest, trying to ignore the sheer fucking height difference between the two of them so he could seem intimidating. It was _ not  _ working.

"I've heard about you. We go to the same school, though I doubt you've seen me before." The giant let out a puff of smoke, looking john in the eyes, very unphased by his posturing. "It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

John knows he's heard the name before, or at least it sounds familiar, but the guy himself is not. Ratty black leather jacket covered in patches and pins, more metal in his face than John cared to count, dark smeared eyeliner and boots that gave him at least an extra 4 inches (not that he needed it). The kid was a spectacle and John could swear he'd never seen him. "Good for you, mate. What do you want?"

"How about we sit down. I doubt anyone's gonna be too mad if you're a few minutes late home and I’d like to talk to you." Sherlock led them to a nearby bench, crossing one leg over the other like nothing was going on, laying his arms across the back. John sat beside him, but a good distance away, staying on the edge of the bench.

"First of all, don't assume shit about my family, second what would we need to talk about? I don't fucking know you."

"Maybe not, but i know you, or at least as well as I could know anyone else," Sherlock looked at him, not needing to scan over him but doing so anyways, " Your father works late, he won't be home for at least a few more hours, that's why you're so eager to go home. Your sister isn't home, she's probably taking the opportunity to go drinking with friends, a habit she would have regretfully picked up from your father.

"No, you know it'll just be you and maybe your mother at home and she doesn't tend to make herself known, does she? Nobody there, nobody to complain you were late," Sherlock looks satisfied with himself, watching John's face move from shock to confusion to something wide-eyed, with some anger thrown in for good measure. 

"That's. Bloody brilliant." John breaths, amazed and suspicious at once, "how did you know that?"

Sherlock worked hard for his surprise not to show. "Easy, I just observed. And maybe I have been for a little while," He looked away for a moment, imagining the thoughts going through John's head, "not stalking you, I've never followed you around or gone to your house or anything. I see you in the halls on occasions, hear how people talk about you and your sister, it's not hard to put together." 

"Why so interested? I hardly seem like the kind of guy you'd hang around." 

Sherlock leaned in towards John, flicking away his cigarette butt into the road, "Because, John. You're angry, you’re tired, you're smart, you've got a thing for danger and uh," Sherlock pulled back one side of his leather jacket, showing off a shirt with the sleeves cut wide off and an unmistakable dark purple binder underneath, "Birds of a feather and all. I know some guys at the other high school like us, we hang around, get in trouble. You seem like our kind of people." 

Sherlock stood, ignoring Johns floundering ‘but I- I’m not- how did-'s and fixing his jacket. He pulled out a strip of paper and handed it to john, “I’m busy tonight, but come by here after school tomorrow if you wanna see what we’re about.” He looked John up and down once more, "and use some of the bandages in your bag to take care of those knuckles." With that, Sherlock walked away, ignoring John's scramble to get up and follow him, finding some way to disappear before John could catch up with him anyway.

“Damn.”

John walked back to the bench, more going over what had just happened than anything else. This Sherlock guy was weird, sure, but he was obviously either some kind of genius or a stalker, but he wasn’t giving off any weird vibes. He also didn't seem to be the kind of guy who'd do all of that just to jump him or anything like that (he’d once had a guy ask him out to try and get him behind the school. He didn’t fall for it, broke the kid's fucking nose. That was in middle school.)

Whatever. He moved on.

John finished his walk home with no more interruptions and sure as he and Sherlock apparently knew, no one was home. Usually when Harry left for the night, she would leave her key for him somewhere but John couldn't find it and she wasn’t answering her phone. He tried knocking on the door on the off chance his mother would come down to open it, but no such luck, all that got him was shushed by a neighbor. Fucking hag. He looked up to his window just above the big kitchen window and frowned. He usually kept his windows unlocked, right?

He dropped his school bag in front of the door. Stepping onto the kitchen windowsill, he looked around to make sure no neighbors would call the fucking cops on him and pulled himself up to grab his own, hooking his leg up on the top of the kitchen window. He fumbled for a moment trying to open his window and not slip like an idiot, groaning at the sting of his knuckles hitting the roofing. Finally getting it open enough to slip through, John crawled on to his desk right under the window, trying not to ruin his own shit. 

He hopped off his desk and slammed his window shut, not locking it in case this shit ever happens again, he goes down to grab his bag off the porch. Poking his head into his parents room as he passed by, John saw his mother laying probably passed out in her bed, either fucking exhausted from whatever she did all day or drunk out of her mind in preparation for his dad getting home. Either way, he had to push down a bit of bitterness at having to break into his own home when she was right upstairs. 

Grabbing his bag, he took advantage of the privacy and changed in the living room, pulling off his loose army jacket and t-shirt and flinging away the two too-small sports bras barely compressing his chest to shit. John sat back on the couch for a second, letting himself breath and cough, before pulling his shirt back on and going about his business. Ramen for dinner, a few hours of shitty tv then he cleaned up and went up to his room to do his work, mess around with his guitar and fuck around online. 

John plugged in his beat up laptop and laid on his bed to wait for it to charge, messing around on his phone. He logged on to twitter and went through his feed.

Twitter was the only social media he really had. He had tumblr and instagram downloaded but never really got around to making accounts, he just didn’t see the point. He didn’t have a bio or a profile picture and his screen name was just  **J @johawa1111** , so it’s not like anyone could tell who he was. He didn’t have any followers and he didn’t follow many people either. A few advice accounts, a celebrity he almost gave a shit about and some random accounts he can't even remember following. He never posted, who the fuck would care, but it was something to do at least, to keep him occupied when there was nothing else. 

Someone was retweeting pictures of a celebrity's baby. Someone was giving advice on coming out to your parents. Someone was posting surgery videos that were very obviously taken from another account. He stayed on the surgery videos for a while. 

Still, John’s mind drifted to Sherlock. 

There was no way he'd spent four years at this school and just never noticed someone like  _ Sherlock Holmes.  _ And he was having a hard time believing that in that time, Sherlock had noticed  _ him _ . Well, if nothing else, he seemed like the kind of guy who'd be really into arguing with people online so John took the initiative to look him up, finding one Sherlock Holmes and at least three accounts making fun of him. Huh. 

**Sherlock Holmes @byronicskulls**

_ he/him | don't argue with me if u can't handle being proven wrong | listen to @burningbooks _

John would put off checking what kind of band Burning Books was for later, scrolling down his feed to see what was up with him. 

The first thing he found was that yes, Sherlock was the type to argue online. Most of his tweets were responses to politicians or low level celebrities or even nobodies he recognized from school, calling them mindless idiots and posting screenshots of receipts and sources when he bothered to actually argue and not just namecall. As far as he could tell, Sherlock was good too. He was rude (read: a douche), intrusive and never shut up, sure, but he made good points and usually ended up on the winning side of any arguments. 

In between his arguing are photos and nonsensical notes, as if the guy was using twitter as his notes app, talking about experiments and random going ons at school, all using just the most unreadable text speak John had ever seen.

He doesn't know what he's thinking when he follows him, but as soon as he does, he's recommended more accounts that are related to his,  **@kingofthecastle** ,  **@dragon-knight** and  **@burningbooks** . He decides not to bother with the first two and instead moves on to Burning Books. 

**Burning Books // 1312**

**@burningbooks**

_ Better than you | Lock/Tiger/King | trans punks will inherit the earth | stream The Game  _

He doesn't listen to any of their music, doesn't interact with any posts, just scrolls through for a few minutes. Some tweets are different members talking about nonsense or new songs, some are retweets of petitions and activism information he doesn't usually think about, some art from fans, photos from shows he tries not to look too hard at. It seems like a normal account for a punk band, not that he's looked into many punk bands on twitter of course. 

As he’s scrolling mindlessly, he passes a video. It’s the three band members, no faces visible, probably during a rehearsal. The video autoplays, the one who set up the camera sits in front of it, hand moving up out of frame to take the cigarette from his mouth, and picks up a guitar. John pressed into the video to hear what’s happening.

“-ome of you’ve been asking, so here’s how to play Hospital Falls.” 

He plays fast and loud, finishing with a flourish and a laugh. Then, he straightens up and plays it again, slowly, emphasizing his hand movements. They looked a lot more simple when done slowly. John rewatched the slowed down hand movements, biting his lip. He could do that, easily. 

He looked across his room, to the guitar leaning against his desk and debates trying. He told himself he didn’t want to interact, but he’d already pressed into the video so...

John stands and grabs his guitar from over by his desk, propping up his phone on his pillow so he can see the video. He watches it again, moving his fingers along with the video, just to try and keep up with the other guitarist. Then, he plays it again, actually, following along on his guitar. It doesn’t sound exactly the same and he has to try over again a few times, but it doesn’t take long for him to be able to keep up with the guy in the video.

He shuffles his guitar in his arms so he can pick his phone back up and scroll further down until he finds another video. This one is just two members, neither showing their faces. The guitarist is leaning against the wall, sharing a smoke with the guy next to him (who John realizes after a second isn’t wearing a shirt and isn’t exactly flat chested), for a few seconds before addressing the camera. 

“Alright, so no one asked me for this but I  _ love  _ this song so I wanna show you how to play Crown Jewels,” He holds up his guitar to start when the guy next to him nudges him with his knee giving a soft grunt barely picked up by the camera’s microphone, “Oh and Tigers here too I guess.”

The guy, Tiger, pushed him, almost sending him to the floor. 

He picked himself back up, his face passing the camera too fast for John to catch, “Fucking  _ whatever,  _ here’s Crown Jewels.”


	2. How To Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fortnite dances* the internets crap rn so i had no choice but to actually write....

John spent the next two hours copying whatever guitar videos he could find, three more hours dicking around online when he ran out and an hour after that rushing to do his homework before he had to go to sleep. He didn’t go to sleep, not really. He was still awake, watching silent surgery videos in the dark, to hear his Harry come into the house, obviously trying and failing not to bump into things in the dark while she pulled herself upstairs. She shuffled over to his room, knocking lightly.

“J-Janey? You still up?” She not quite whispered, waiting for an answer he wouldn’t give. Eventually she gave up and John didn’t breathe again until he heard her door close. 

He got up slowly to grab his headphones, not wanting his floor squeaking to give him away, and spent the next while watching nonsense on youtube until he fell asleep. 

  
  


John woke up at 7:30 to his alarm and, instead of actually getting up to get ready for the day, he laid in bed doing nothing for thirty minutes until his mom came knocking on he and his sisters' doors. He slid out of bed and onto the floor, groaning. He didn’t fucking want to be awake, much less have to do anything. Sadly, he didn’t have an excuse to not go. So he peeled himself off the floor and grabbed whatever t shirt and jeans he could find on the floor, heading out to the bathroom. 

He turns on the shower but doesn’t climb in, he just sits on the edge of the tub and ruffles his hair under the water, shivering when his shirt gets soaked. He didn’t smell, so he didn’t see the point in actually showering, didn’t think he could muster up the energy to shower. He sat there for a good while, until the water was hot enough to make his scalp itch, and even then he gives it a few seconds. He ruffles a towel through his hair, staring at the small fogged mirror above the sink, grumbling when the too long whisps of his hair brush up against the back of his neck.

He had cut his hair a few months ago, in this very bathroom in the middle of the night, with school scissors and his sister’s hand mirror. It was choppy and awkward, but it was short and just boyish enough that he didn't want to shave his head every time he looked in the mirror. His dad had not been as pleased. 

It had been long enough since then that his hair was growing back, now just long enough to set off little warning bells in his head, but he couldn’t do anything about it without risking getting kicked out of the house. 

He ruffles his hair upwards so it wouldn’t touch his neck and left it at that, figuring perpetual bedhead wasn’t exactly unusual for him. 

He pops back into his room, throwing his things into his bag, and slipping on his shoes and army jacket, momentarily debating jumping out his windows, if breaking his legs or ribs was worth the couple weeks off school. He decides against it, barely, tossing his bag over his shoulder and leaving his room just in case he got tempted. 

He knocks on Harry’s door, knowing she had gone back to sleep after mom's wake up call as usual and as soon as he hears a groan of acknowledgement, he goes downstairs. Mom was nowhere to be seen so he pops a packet of poptarts into the toaster and grabs the packet he stashed in the freezer to eat cold. Don’t fucking judge him. 

By the time he’s done, sucking half frozen pastry out of his teeth, Harry’s come downstairs, almost looking as if she didn’t have a massive hangover. 

“Dad’ll be up in twenty, let’s go,” She grumbles, dragging her bag behind her and grabbing her poptarts and an apple. She turned around, not caring about his response. Whatever. He got up and grabbed his bag. 

  
  


Walking to school with his sister wasn't the  _ worst  _ part of his day, but it definitely wasn’t the best. She usually didn’t pay much attention to him, fiddling around with her phone, and when she did, it was to talk shit about something one of her friends had said. He didn’t know how to express just how badly he didn’t give a shit, so he didn’t say anything at all. 

The most interesting thing that happened on their walk was when an expensive looking car passed them by a bit too slow for either of their liking and Harry threw her half eaten apple at it.

  
  


Walking into school was mediocre in a way that pained the soul. He put his headphones in as soon as he went through the doors and pointedly ignored anyone who even looked at him. Harry was long gone, whether to her classes or to hang out in the bathroom, he didn’t care. He just made his way to his first class. 

He slips into literature and sits in the back, hidden behind two rugby players who never bothered him much. John rummages through his bag for their last assignment, dropping it on his desk to be turned in and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his timeline for things to distract him, surgery videos and content farm how-tos, absentmindedly thanking whoever picked up his assignment. 

He doesn’t pay much attention after that, he doesn’t think he ever does. He knows enough to zone out in class at least, and anything he misses he can get from Molly. 

The foods being made on whatever youtube hole he fell into looked like actual shit but it was more eye catching then whatever was on the board. It always was. But he was just cognizant enough of his surroundings to look up when his name was called and mumble out some avoidant bullshit whenever a kid tries to ask him something. 

By the time the bell rings, he’s run out of youtube steam and has moved back on to twitter, scrolling mindlessly, not actually absorbing anything he saw. He’s staring at his phone as he moves through the halls, knowing the path to his next class by rote. His eyes only flick up when he feels eyes on him and he bares his teeth up at some guy glaring at him from across the hall. Fuck that guy.

John makes his way to his nursing class anyways, not bothering to look at Aaron, already sitting in his spot with a massive bruise across his cheek. Why would he bother with some asshole he watched get his shit rocked not 24 hours ago? He slides into his station beside Molly, the only bearable person in the building. She looks up to him for a second to give him a smile, then goes back to looking through her notes for what looks like a math class.

He pulls up his stool and lays his head down on their work station until class starts. Nursing was, surprisingly, the only class he actually gave a crap about and the teacher loved him. Mrs. Tyler would only call him by his last name because she knew he hated his deadname and she let him sleep in the back of her classroom after school when he had to wait around for Harry and she let him fuck around witht he supplies when he finished his work first. 

Class starts and John  _ wants  _ to pay attention because they're talking about removing necrotic tissue and the teacher has  _ image references  _ but he keeps getting distracted by fukcing Aaron across the room, giving him the stink eye and the little slip of paper from Sherlock still tucked in his pocket. Every so often, he’d run his fingers around his pocket feeling for them paper and running his fingers over the text as if he could read his writing with his fingers.

The teacher gave out note sheets that he filled out without thinking, asking Molly for help on one blank and it was mostly because he couldn’t spell a word. The rest of the period was free work and most of the class worked on the essays they were assigned last week, he and Molly got to talk and use their phones like Good Kids. 

“Hey,” he whispers without thinking, getting Molly’s attention, “Have you heard of a guy called Sherlock?”

He sees something flash in her eyes when he mentions the name and almost regrets asking. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” She whispers back. She seems to think for a moment before telling him, “I’ve been in classes with him, back in year 10, but I see him around.”

“What do you know about him?” 

“He’s  _ really  _ smart,” she said immediately, like anyone could miss it, “and kind of... rough around the edges.”

“That’s all you know?” He figured the most obvious thing about him would be the look. 

“Well... ” She hummed, “It’s been awhile since I saw him, but I know he only comes to school every few days. I think he has a deal with the school because I’ve heard the counselors talk and he’s still passing all his classes.”

He nodded and turned away, “Alright, cool. Thanks.”

When class ended he said bye to Molly and Mrs. Tyler only and went out into the courtyard to find something to do during break. Usually he’d go get something to eat or hang around the counselors office, but surprise surprise he wasn’t exactly feeling it. He wasn’t feeling much of anything if he was gonna be honest. 

John’s standing in the middle of the courtyard, clutching the straps of his backpack and trying to get his mind to restart when he realizes- He doesn't have to be here. He can just leave. So he does.

He leaves campus and heads toward a shop he likes, gets himself a cheap lunch of crisps and soda, getting as much junk into his mouth as he can with whatever cash he has on him. Which isn’t much. 

He’s walking around, mind fucking empty, for at least an hour before he starts thinking about Sherlock. What he’s doing, why he’s never seen him at school, how the hell he gets away with only coming to school every few  _ days.  _ It takes him a few minutes of thinking to remember he’s carrying around a fucking  _ calling card  _ in his pocket. 

Okay. Great. He dips off the sidewalk, leaning against a shop so he could grab the paper and plug the address into the generic map app on his phone. It looks fairly close, some old garage apparently. John shrugged, and started off, his mind reeling with what he might be walking into. Maybe this was some secret gang hideout or a drug ring or a trafficking thing? Worse, what if it was just  _ boring.  _ What if he walked in expecting danger and excitement and he just found an old abandoned garage and Sherlock was just another douchebag pulling one on him?

Well. If it was dangerous, too dangerous at least, he’d leave. If it was a prank, he’d kick his ass. Easy. 

John’s been through it all before, what does it matter if Sherlock was infuriating and interesting and the only other trans person he’d met in three years?

  
  


Alright. Okay. This is cool. John looks up at the building, big, square, covered in graffiti and chipping paint, and thinks ‘yeah, this is where i die.’ He looks around for anyone watching him as walks around the building, but the area looks fucking dead. There’s maybe a few people milling around at some nearby shops but most of the places around look just as run down and abandoned as the garage. 

He’s pretty close to just high tailing it when he hears a screeching noise coming from inside and rushes to the nearest door. 

He comes in just in time to see two guys fucking around inside around with a guitar and a set of amps and speakers. One of them was strumming absently, not doing much in particular, but the other was kicking around scrap metal, passing it in front of the microphone, making an ungodly tone. The place was a mess, honestly, the two were surrounded by instruments and old boxes and crates and metal and what looked like beer cans. It almost made John want to bail, having to hide behind stacks of dubiously clean .

The guys, thought. They looked familiar, but he wasn’t sure where from. The one on the guitar was a little too far off for John to really see his face, but he knows he's never seen someone with hair like that, shaved on the sides and longer in the back like a... mohawk-mullet. The one kicking around the metal was hopping around too fast to him to see his face, just the white leather jacket and black jeans. Honestly, what an aesthetic.

“Ay, Tiger, check me out!” He laughed, jumping up onto one of the boxes, “Play me something!”

Oh. alright, so maybe he’s an idiot. And if the blond one was Tiger and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, then the other one must be King.

Tiger just shrugged, and started actually playing something. Not that good, but it was fast and loud and King must have loved it because he was bouncing from box to crate to box with the rhythm, laughing off every time he swayed and lost his balance for a second. 

“Tiger, come on, look at me-” King jumped again, aiming for the top of the speaker, but fucked up and ate dirt instead. His foot slipped off the corner of the speaker and it sent him straight to the ground, arm first.

_ CRACK _


End file.
